


Force of Nature

by poemwithnorhyme



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:03:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poemwithnorhyme/pseuds/poemwithnorhyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski is just a human, just the friend of the hero. At least, that is all that he thought he was.<br/>Warnings: Graphic non-con and violence</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is paralyzed by the Kanima, and Peter Hale comes across him.  
> Response to this prompt on the Teen Wolf Kink Meme: Anyone/Stiles  
> Someone, anyone molests Stiles while he's paralysed by the Kanima. Would prefer for this to be slightly less than consensual, but I'll take it any way. (http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/4407.html?thread=3492151#t3492151)  
> Note: SPOILERS for episode 2.07 and 2.08 as well as predictions that will likely be proven wrong by canon in 2.09

Stay in the house, they said. You'll be safe there, they said. Yeah, tell that to the pissed off snake-thing staring at him like he was a bunch of delicious mice on a platter, or a nice, juicy murderer in the case of the Kanima.

Stiles stepped backwards, intending to run, which was stupid, he knew, but he never claimed to be the sharpest tool in the shed. Jackson sliced the back of his neck not a second after he'd turned, his hand leaping to touch the sliver. He winced, certain his face did some cringe-worthy gymnastics as the familiar symptoms of the toxin settled over his muscles, misting over the initial shock of pain. His legs transformed into flimsy sticks incapable of bearing his weight, and his face hit the decrepit floor of the Hale house, arms framing his head. He was really getting sick of being in this position, of being so weak. At least no one could blame his humanity this time. He'd seen Derek get taken down by his once normal, douche of a bully, so he didn't exactly feel too ashamed.

But he was going to die. Wasn't he? 

Then the comforting sounds of growling, and, well, maybe he wasn't going to die after all. He listened to the struggle, internally cheering when the Kanima released a hissing shriek, audibly clambering the wall to escape.

“Oh thank jesus, is it you, Scott? Or Derek? Even Erica for christ's sake? You gonna help a guy up?”

Fingers – scratch that, _claws_ \- gripped his shoulder, turning him over. His typically steady breath went erratic, “Oh god. You... you can't be alive. You're dead. Derek killed you. This is impossible and I'm dreaming. Right? Dreaming.”

“Am I a common enough occurrence in your dreams, Stiles, that you actually believe that?”

Stiles didn't say anything, momentarily stunned by the question. He usually just blathered on when he was nervous, not really putting much weight in his exact phrasing, and this time, it had been quite the Freudian slip. If those things even actually existed.

Peter raised a brow, clearly getting the wrong idea, “Ah, well, I'm flattered.”

“Wait, what? No. I mean, yes, you can tell I'm lying, but it's just that I have nightmares in which you usually bite me and I die. Or I turn and then I get shot by Chris Argent or his freaky wife, though she's dead now, but then again, so are you. Are you going to kill me? You're going to kill me, aren't you? For throwing that Molotov cocktail on you. Shit, I shouldn't have brought that up. You're definitely going to kill me now.”

Peter was just looking at him. Not glaring, not scowling at him, or even smiling, just contemplating him. Weighing his options. Likely sorting out the pros and cons of Stiles' death. All the while, Stiles was doing the same, only, seriously, how the fuck was Peter Hale still alive?!

The ex-Alpha smirked, taking a chiseled finger and tapping it against his lips, “Does it matter how I'm here? No matter the reasons behind it, I can still tear you tear you limb from limb,” and Stiles could only watch and hyperventilate as Peter covered him with his body, hands at his shoulders, teeth lined up against his jugular, “I can still bite you.”

Stiles swallowed, wishing he hadn't the moment his skin rose to meet Peter's lips, “My answer is the same as before. I don't want the bite.”

“Stiles, you're a smart boy. You've heard me offer it before. Did it sound like I was offering you the bite?”

Stiles was panicking now, the evidence of which could only be seen in his wide eyes and heard in the rapid pace of his pulse. Peter laughed, but Stiles could not determine what sort of laugh it was. Amused? Bitter? Ironic? He was lost. If Peter was serious, no amount of babbling could protect him.

Didn't mean he wouldn't try.

“Wait, don't do it. I'd make a horrid werewolf, I promise. I'd be worse than Scott. I'm completely all over the place, distracted by the littlest thing. I'd see a rabbit and off I'd go. Seriously, you don't want me in your pack.”

Peter shot up from his throat, no longer looking at him as much as fucking devouring him with his eyes, “Now there you are wrong. I want you in my pack. I wanted you before, and this time, I'm not going to allow you to slip through my fingers only to come back and turn the tides. I'm not going to underestimate you again.”

To say that Stiles was freaking out at this point would be the biggest goddamn understatement in the history of the universe. Like, a Samwise Gamgee only had a tiny role in saving Middle Earth level of understatement.

Those deadly teeth were back at his throat, and Stiles thought that was it, this was the end. If someone had asked him if it could get worse, he would have said he doubted it. He would have been wrong. Beyond wrong, really. 

His eyes landed on the wall as Peter nudged his throat to the side before he, honest to god, _sniffed_ him. An approving whine rumbled down Stiles' spine and it took him a moment before he realized the noise had actually come from Peter and not his deranged imagination.

“What the fuck?”

The only response he got was a grunt before the werewolf nosed at his jawline, tilting his head back and good god was he licking him?!

“I say again, _what the fuck_?! Get off me! Now!” But he could do absolutely nothing to back himself up, as he had no motor function to speak of. He was only capable of angling his chin away in the hopes that Peter got the hint.

Wow, this sucked. 

His only chance was that not all of the Pack had picked up the Kanima's scent and gone after him, that at least one of them had stayed behind to find him. … He could dream, right?

The wet sensation of Peter's tongue traveled up, curving around to his ear, hot breath eliciting a prickling sheen of gooseflesh across his body. His optimism was vanishing by the second.

“Do you know what made me like you, Stiles? Any guesses?” Peter's voice was tender, like he was speaking to a spooked animal. Perhaps the notion wasn't that far off.

His face was guided back into its original position, and he was unafraid to look Peter right in the eye. 

“No, but I suppose you're going to tell me anyways?”

Peter smiled at him, “Because of that,” the gentle tone to his voice never faded as he spoke slowly, surely, stroking a single claw down Stiles' cheek, his gray-blue eyes just as soft as his lilt, “Because you don't flinch from me. You stood me down, even when I spoke loud enough to rattle your very bones, even when I held your fragile wrist in my grip and nearly made you mine... You never backed away. If anything, you kept pushing me just to see what you could get away with. And then, after you refused the bite, just when I thought you could not surprise me anymore, you leaned _towards_ me.”

Peter visibly shivered, eyes shut for a moment, and good lord that alone was violating, before he slunk downward, his gaze disconcertingly close, “You play the same game as I, Stiles, and that alone makes you worthy.”

Stiles released a breath he had not been aware he was holding when Peter jerked back. The werewolf cocked his head to the side, one nail circling the mole to the left of Stiles' mouth. “But that isn't all, no, not by any means.”

Peter's voice was almost reverent; what the fuck was quickly becoming the mantra of the hour.

“You're brave enough to face an Alpha, and you're loyal to a fault. Not to mention that oh so intriguing mind of yours. I have personally been the recipient of your resourceful nature, and by the way,” he drew blood at his cheek, tugging a startled grunt from Stiles' closed lips, “I really do have to get you back for that – you should have realized that setting a burn victim aflame was cruel, especially for the so-called heroes. But that will be dealt with at a later date, don't you worry.”

Stiles huffed nervously, “If you're trying to compliment me and put my fears to rest, you're doing a pretty shitty job.”

Peter considered him, nodding, all too calm, “Yes, you're right. My point is that you are everything that I want in a packmate. More than that, Stiles, you are everything I want in a _mate_. Do you understand, or need I explain more?”

Stiles couldn't help it. He started laughing. He legit thought it was a joke. Just a way to throw him off, because, c'mon? Mate-material? For one, he was a dude. Couldn't exactly carry a litter of werewolf puppies now could he? Two, he was, well, unsuitable in every way. He was weak, he had ADD, and he chattered endlessly. Even Derek merely tolerated him (well, Stiles liked to think the grumpy wolf liked him more than he pretended to, since he had saved his ass a couple times). 

Okay, if he had to be entirely honest, he wasn't all that bad if those were his worst flaws. But c'mon, he didn't exactly scream choice bedmate for a murderous vigilante zombie werewolf. He was sixteen for god's sake! This was ridiculous, and he said as much.

Peter just chuckled, yes, chuckled, all light-hearted and amused. Asshole. “It is just like you not to notice your own merit. But I'll show you. When I'm finished with you, there will be no doubt that I want you, that you were made for me.”

“Whoa, chillax for a sec and don't go crazy. Well, crazier then you already are...” That earned him his first glare, and ah, wasn't that the homocidal Alpha he remembered, “I mean, not that you're crazy, as such, more misguided and completely deranged,” Peter's lip twitched, fear lancing through Stiles' resolve, “but, uh, that's not helping is it? Nevermind, forget all of that. What I mean is that I don't want to be a werewolf. What about forcibly changing me is going to make me like you?”

“I didn't actually say I was going to bite you, Stiles, but I don't need to ask your permission to do so. I'm disappointed that you need to be reminded.”

Something didn't add up... Derek was still an Alpha, Stiles had just seen him. He had taken the rank from Peter himself, and here Peter was, alive. That mean he couldn't be an Alpha anymore, right?

His eyes lit up in the place of his usual flailing excitement, “Oh my god, wait. You're not an Alpha anymore. You're lying. You can bite me all you want, but you can't change me, can you? Derek took your power. There's no way you got it back. Being an Alpha has to be an all or nothing kind of deal, right?”

Peter didn't so much as blink, giving nothing away. Stiles once more cursed the Kanima's venom or whatever the hell this shit was, because he would have really liked to move right now. At least moving kept him busy; now all he could do to occupy himself was catalog every miniscule gesture and pray Peter hadn't lost his patience. At least he could pretend Peter's silence meant he was right and he was in no danger of turning into a hairy wolfman if Peter bit him. 

But what if he was wrong?

Yeah, he'd gotten nowhere with that one. Welp, new tactic then.

“Have you realized that I'm not gay yet? Because I'd love to go home now. Well, after this poison-stuff wears off. See, I skipped dinner, and I know for a fact that there is mac and cheese waiting for me.”

Peter shook his head, frowning, and yeah, this was bad, “No, do not try to distract me. It will not work. I have told you what I want, and that isn't going to change. I've been honest and open with you, can't you at least do me the favor of believing me?”

“No, actually, I can't. Hello. Not gay, remember?”

“We both know that's more than a lie, Stiles. I've been watching you. I've been watching Derek. Don't play me for a fool.”

Stiles was really confused now. 

Any further vindication of his heterosexuality was swallowed by Peter's mouth, by the crush of teeth and the exhilarating press of fangs against the vulnerable skin that was his lips– cuts wouldn't be enough to turn him, would it? It didn't matter, it was just a kiss, a rough one, albeit, but bloodless. His first kiss at that... but Stiles wouldn't give Peter the satisfaction of knowing that.

Stiles fought to regain his stolen breath as Peter retreated, straddling his thighs, glancing about the room before resettling his hungry, _glowing_ eyes on Stiles – and he had been right, they weren't red. They were orange.

Fuck, what did that mean?! Was he a super-Alpha or something? Was he even a werewolf anymore?

Peter aligned himself over Stiles again, this time with his palms massaging his hips over his shirt before slipping underneath, sliding the cloth upward until it was at his collarbone, Peter's mouth quickly following suit. 

The bitch about being paralyzed like this was that yeah, he had no motor control, but his senses were perfectly intact. He would have been willing to bet that they were heightened, considering they were all he had left. His body was reacting as though he was not immobilized, in spite of the Stiles' nonexistent consent. His skin got hot, flushed, pressure starting at his groin.

He kept his eyes cast downward and his head lifted as much as he could before he exhausted himself, attempting to capture every flicker of cloth and motion. He was failing miserably.

This was getting out of hand faster than he had anticipated, and he had no clue what to do about it. So, like always, he talked. “Hey, you know, Derek is going to be back soon. He killed you last time, he can do it again...”

Peter pulled at his nipple with his fangs in response. Stiles grunted his discomfort; he would have given anything to at least be able to shrink away.

Peter's tongue hastily soothed the sore nerves, which was, if anything, more awkward than the pain.

“Okay, geez, you can stop it now. I get it, you think I'm hot,” Stiles said, hoping that admitting his evident attraction, whatever his crazy reasons for it, was enough to convince Peter that being rapey was not the answer. 

No such luck. Peter's free hand began to fiddle with the zipper on his jeans, the sound setting off every alarm he possessed. 

“Molesting me _really_ isn't going to help your case. What ever happened to asking someone out on a date before trying to get into their pants?” Stiles was well aware that his desperation was showing, but he was running out of ways to avoid just breaking down and begging Peter not to take his virginity.

Of course, it didn't work. Stiles still couldn't see him, but he could feel every deliberate tug on his jeans and boxers until, oh christ, they were gone – shoes too, and Stiles groaned, “What the fuck are you doing, give me back my pants, you creeper, you've made your point.”

Peter was between his legs now, still ignoring him, one hand curled around the his thigh while the other unceremoniously scraped lightly over his groin. He didn't go as far as to put any pressure there, yet, but his nails were a threatening weight. 

Dread curled like a bundle of snakes in Stiles' gut, rattling and nauseating. What could he do? Absolutely nothing; like he told Scott, sarcasm was his only defense.

“This is just stupid, you know that, right? You're so breaking the law. You're a fucking cradle robber, not that you care. You can't just -”

“Shut up, Stiles. This is happening no matter how much you try to yap my ear off, as endearing as I generally find your little antics... Just relax, and enjoy this.”

“Just, wait -” he interrupted himself by sucking in a huge breath when Peter went promptly from hovering over his dick to stroking it. Yep, this was a fucked up situation. “Whoa, oh my god, stop. Stop that.”

The fact that his voice didn't squeak was an accomplishment in itself. 

Stiles' breath was just hitched puffs of air now, his heartbeat consuming his mind as he shut his eyes tightly, all the while, Peter didn't stop. No, he sure as hell didn't stop, he just kept _pulling_ and coaxing and kissing his stomach. Stiles had no influence over his movements, instincts kicking his muscles into gear, his legs twitching and his hips jerking like a well trained toy; holy jesus, this was really happening.

“Your body is relaxed, oh yes, if only you could see yourself right now, but I can tell that you are not. Perhaps this is not intimate enough to reassure you.”

His eyes snapped open, “You're insane. I don't need _reassurance_ , you sick fuck. I need you to get away from me. I don't want you, not anywhere near me, and definitely not fucking touching me.”

Peter lifted himself so they were eye-to-eye, giving him one of those disapproving expressions that the Hales must have ingrained in their DNA, “You'll change your mind, with time and experience. You're still young, and I have so much yet to teach you.”

Then he was gone again. And - “Oh. **Oh** , dear lord, are you really?” Yep, that was Peter's mouth on his dick. He grimaced, “Oh jesus, you are. This is disgusting.”

By this point in any movie or tv show in the history of the world, he would have magically recovered his ability to move in order to make some daring escape. But this was no movie, this was no tv show, and that damn toxin was still rife in his veins. He couldn't do anything significant. Talking was more than ineffective. If anything, it encouraged Peter all the more. The Pack had seemingly abandoned him – though he knew he couldn't really blame them, but it seemed like a good idea for the here and now. He was helpless, truly and wholly, and he could not even pretend to defend himself.

It was almost instinctual to call for Scott, for Derek, for any of them, and he started too, but then a scene began to play in his mind. Even if they miraculously heard him, they would see him like this, splayed out, his body cooperating and loving this. Peter would run, and this image would be branded in all of their minds forever. No, better to suffer alone; as long as he survived, right?

How pathetic was that? He was acting the martyr, but only to protect himself from any further humiliation. If he had the emotions to spare, he would have been sickened by himself, but he was too busy, y'know, being raped and all to give a shit. He'd have plenty of time for self-loathing later.

He wanted to cry – could he even cry?

Yep, he could, because there were tears leaking from his eyes. He was so pitiful that he couldn't even stop himself from crying.

“No, damn it, no! Would you please just _stop_!?” He was begging now, he couldn't help it, because, god, he could feel his hips snap upward, Peter's tongue doing all kinds of mind-warping tricks, and he was so far gone. He rolled his head back and forth in a semblance of a fit, because it was all he could do. 

He found himself moaning, twisting the noise with anger and shame. Peter groaned around him, appreciative, while his nails dripped down Stiles' chest, leaving behind a prickling trail of fire that could only precede blood. He focused on them, thankful for the distracting burn, but it wasn't enough.

He pushed his head back as his body tensed up, back naturally arching ever so slightly, preparing itself. He was babbling again, a litany of words that he had no control over, “Please, let me go, don't do this, I don't want this. No, Oh god, oh _god_.” 

He was coming, and Peter did not so much as attempt to move, taking every bit that Stiles had to give him. If the circumstances had been different, it would have been hot as hell. As it was, though, it was disturbing to know that some of himself was inside the monster still latched around his cock.

He shuddered, breathless and speechless for once, his muscles contracting and a deafening hum in his ears. It was supposed to be over now, but the roar that shook the walls was indication enough of the contrary. Peter was quite literally torn from him, accompanied by a porn-worthy wet pop and all.

Once more, two creatures of the night endeavored to rip each other apart right next to his frozen and now half-naked and debauched body, and he couldn't see a damn thing. He felt like some prize being fought over, except, ha, no wait – it was true. Peter wanted him, and it didn't matter if Stiles thought he was batshit, he still wanted to kidnap Stiles and brainwash his sixteen-year-old-ass into loving him. That much was clear, and Stiles was not going to fall for that bullshit “I'm not good enough” routine that so many chicks swear by. 

His own opinion of himself, whatever it may be on any given day, had no relevance to begin with. Peter Hale would not be swayed from his decision. He had just proven it by sucking Stiles off amidst the ruins of his family home; practically on their deathbeds. Hell – he was by the fireplace – Peter had just given him a blowjob on top of his own damn grave.

Good lord, if his best friend wasn't a werewolf, he wouldn't believe this shit.

The air was cold against the perspiration dotting his trembling form, aftershocks still pulsating through him even as clammy hands – no claws this time, thank the lord – brushed against his sides, checking for injuries.

He wasn't sure who had saved him, but it was one of the Pack, and god, he had come right in front of them – could he just die now? 

Finally, Derek came into view, his eyes still artery-red, and the laugh that ripped itself from Stiles' throat could be described as nothing other than utterly broken.

“Derek. Jesus christ, I, Peter, he... I just....”

Derek was just staring at him, reminiscent of his uncle, and Stiles just couldn't handle that. “Could you at least fucking cover me up or something? I'm not a zoo-animal. Have some goddamn decency.”

He could not believe that every syllable remained complete, that he did not stutter or simply stop talking – was he traumatized? Had everything that happened just not registered yet? Because he was freaking out in his mind, but his mouth seemed to be on auto-pilot. Maybe that was for the best, so Derek might treat him normally.

Too bad that wasn't going to happen. He wasn't precisely certain how Derek was treating him, but it was weird. He had disappeared again, tracing the scratches on his chest, all the way down to - “What in holy hell are you doing?!”

“He touched you... I can smell him on you, he... He claimed you.”

Stiles had never heard him sound this way – shocked, totally despondent, as though he were in a trance. His eyebrows knitted together, not quite comprehending why Derek would behave in such a way. Claiming... 

“Wait, he did say something about wanting me as a mate. He didn't... did he? Derek, explain. Everything. Now.” Stiles needed to not be confused, just for a moment; he needed it for his sanity.

“No, you are not his mate. Not yet. But he has marked you, and he will come back for you.”

“That's fucking fantastic. Just great. Hey, while we're on the subject of awesome shit, how is it that he is still _alive_?”

“I don't know.” Well, there was no room for argument there.

“Okay. That's wonderful. Do you know anything at all?” Stiles couldn't refrain from snapping. He needed answers and he wasn't getting any, and he was a little goddamn stressed, so sue him.

Derek was silent, and Stiles began to get anxious, not that he wasn't anyways. “Derek? I still need you to cover me up, please, this is getting creepy.”

Hands circled his hips, and still, he could not move. “Derek?”

“I can't let him claim you, Stiles, I can't. If I lose you, too, I... You're pack. Just like Scott. But you're more than that, you're... Please don't hate me for this. Please understand, if I don't, then he has every right to you.”

“What are you talking about? You're scaring the hell out of me, and I think I've been scared enough for one night.”

“I'm sorry, this is not how I wanted it to be.”

He didn't fucking sound sorry. And wait, not how he wanted it to be? “What?”

Derek's fingertips trailed through the mess of welled up blood on his chest, drawing away only to be replaced with his _tongue_. Stiles' mind went blank, everything stopped, except for Derek, who was moving downward, and then he understood.

“Oh god, you're not going to... You can't. Seriously, Derek, don't you fucking dare! I will never forgive you for this – I don't care why you're doing it. You're not doing me a favor!”

Derek's mouth closed over him, and he gasped, holding in a gulp of air for as long as he could before he adjusted himself back into a stilted breathing pattern. It was happening all over again, only this time, it was Derek, and wasn't that a kick in the ass. They had finally started to work together. Stiles had just begun to earn his respect, and now it was all lost. Now Derek was on his hands and knees, sucking his cock, and not in a fun way.

Not that there could be a fun way for Derek to touch his dick. Sure, he'd entertained the concept, especially after Derek had slammed him into his own door – so much strength – but he'd never taken it seriously. He wasn't gay. Didn't every guy think about it, once in a while? Although, he did have an unhealthy obsession with finding out if gay guys found him hot, but, well, that was more of an insecurity thing than a “I want to touch a cock” thing. Wasn't it in the bro-code that one had to masturbate to dudes to be classified as gay? Well, there was that one time... 

Now it didn't matter if he'd thought about it or not, with Derek or otherwise. He _knew_ what it was like, and, in this context, he hated it. He didn't want to be touched, not now, not for a long time. He simply wanted to just curl up in his familiar sheets and be blessed with dreamless sleep. 

But no, instead, he was being given the second blowjob of his entire life over some territorial power-play between fucking werewolves, and he would have preferred being stabbed in the gut.

This was not okay, alright? None of this was okay.

Werewolf best friend or not, being raped was not supposed to be part of the agenda. Ever. Not by the undead Peter, and certainly not by his Alpha, because, yes, the moment Derek became Scott's Alpha, he became Stiles' as well.

And as his Alpha, he was supposed to protect him, not molest him, right? No matter the predicament. Derek obviously wasn't being a very good Alpha.

He realized that his brain was doing a great job with that defense mechanism shit, because it wasn't until Derek's fingernails dug into his hips that he felt himself jolted back to reality. The reality wherein his Alpha was going to town on his cock, oh god, why couldn't he have just stayed in his mind...

“You fucking asshole, why are you doing this?! Why couldn't we have talked this through...”

What he really meant to ask was why the fuck did he have to be lucid for this? Why couldn't he just drift? But being able to say that would require articulation, and that sort of thought was far from his grasp.

Derek was not as skilled as Peter, his mouth a bit too dry and his teeth too sharp and close, and Stiles didn't know what to garner from that horrifying knowledge. He just filed it away, hopefully never to revisit it. But he had to get past this first. Had he been able to control his own body, he would have tried to help this along, because if he couldn't stop it and wasn't allowed to ignore it, he sure as hell wanted it over with.

So he let himself concentrate on it. He really didn't even need to. His body was on overdrive, and he still had no say in his reactions. Getting off a teenage boy who could not counter said stimulation in any way was likely the easiest thing in the world.

That being said, Derek had clearly never sucked someone off before, but lucky for him, he was oversensitive. Yet, it was closer to the raw part of sensitive and thus, it did take a lot longer than before, but soon his body was like play-doh in Derek's hands, just as he had been for Peter. That was all he was for them, he was sure of that now. Just a plaything, something to bend and break and fashion anew.

He closed his eyes and just surrendered, feeling so unbelievably close to shattering, just like they wanted him to. If he wasn't given room to breathe soon, he would. But thank the lord for being a hormonal boy with quick down-time.

Derek did not even try to swallow as Peter had, the slick heat gone, substituted by a gentle hand which guided him to completion. He could not hide his expression, muffling a whimper as well as he could. He could tell that Derek's judgmental gaze was on him the whole time, tracking every fracture as he broke, head pushing back into the floor, back off the ground, just as before, but this time... this time...

He blinked his eyes open, barely caring to notice Derek lapping up the evidence of his own touch. He was sure he'd have a not-so-minor panic attack about it later.

He opened his mouth to say something, but the supposedly soothing sensation of his own climax bogged him down enough that he was simply too weary to yell, to scream, to tell Derek just how much he despised him. 

He was still crying though. He was honestly too exhausted to even feel ashamed about it.

Derek was above him now, his eyes back to an indecipherable blue-green shade. That was good, that was comforting... A little. Stiles turned his head to the side and continued to cry – why couldn't he stop?! It was muted tears, just a sign of stress, he knew, but it was weakness, wasn't it? The soft pad of Derek's entirely human finger suddenly brushed his cheek, collecting tears and a speckle of blood from the puncture inflicted by Peter.

“I'm so sorry, Stiles. I never meant for this to happen. I...” 

Stiles wasn't listening. He didn't want to hear excuses. He just wanted someone to knock him out at this point, because he was so, so tired. With his eyes shut, his mind on 'let's contemplate oblivion', he tuned out the numbing reminder of his own paralysis and the rustling sound of clothes as Derek dressed him. There was plenty of time to dwell in the morning.


	2. Sacrifice Turns To Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Peter claims Stiles, he returns to collect.  
> Partially in response to any prompt on the Teen Wolf Kink Meme like this one: Peter/stiles non-con or dub-con  
> I am in desperate need for some peter/stiles, all i request is that it be non-con or dub-con. The darker the better. (http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/5710.html?thread=4044622#t4044622)  
> Spoilers for S2 of Teen Wolf, but is largely AU from 2.08

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "I Love You" by Enigma

“Derek said you'd be back... I had been hoping he was wrong. What the hell do you want from us?!”

“I've already told you what I want from you, Stiles. As for the others, it should be obvious. I want a pack. This pack.”

“You can't just _take_ a pack!” Stiles' cheeks are the very picture of rose-red, flushed by meticulously contained fear, and his eyes, oh, those eyes, burning with justified ire.

He is absolutely gorgeous, there is no question about it.

Peter smile, showing too many teeth, gesturing toward the rusting pillar where Derek sits, bowed and bleeding, “I believe that I already have.”

The three newest pups had been child's play, except for that larger one – he is going to be a force to be reckoned with once Peter finished training him, but for the moment, he is nothing more than a fly caught in his web. 

Scott had been formidable, but easily distracted. And Derek? Well, he had been too shell-shocked to put up much of a fight, but he had done his rank proud all the same. It just hadn't been sufficient.

The fault does not lay with him, not really. 

It had been almost too simple, and Peter can not in good conscience chalk it up to having more experience. The only conclusion is that he is more than a mere werewolf. He has returned from the dead; he is bigger, faster, stronger, but not in the way an Alpha would be. He honestly can not be entirely sure _what_ he is, but he still has the instincts of a wolf. 

It had been the one real catch to his rebirth by Lydia and her remarkable, wolfsbane infused blood. Oh, no doubt he is still at least partially a werewolf, and as such, retains his competence for combat. He has, however, lost some bulk in his wolf form. Nevertheless, Derek and his ragtag team of outsiders are no match for him – that much has been proven by their humiliating defeat.

Despite their failure, Stiles doesn't give up, glancing towards the rest of the equally subdued pack before back at Peter, fists at his sides. Peter notes every flicker of emotion in those honey-brown eyes of his, from disbelief to defeat to defiance and everything in between. 

“No. We won't accept you. We won't follow you. Ever.”

The passion in his voice, the unflappable faith, it is enough to prompt the others to raise their heads, and for Derek to avert his gaze from the threat before him. Stiles has the proof of Peter's superiority right in front of him, and yet he refuses to be cowed. Perfect.

Peter has chosen well.

Not for the first time, Peter thinks about how everything would have gone had he bitten Stiles rather than Scott. It would have been a lot less messy without Scott's love life complicating the situation, that much was indisputable. But it doesn't matter now, because here he is. Alive once more. His beautiful tether to the world of the living had unknowingly breathed life back into his scarred corpse, but he'd suffered for ages in his own head – well, in Lydia's head - and by the time the process was complete, he had realized that those who had inflicted such horror on him had given him a gift.

Granted, humans had lit him aflame for the second time in his life, the pain proving to be nostalgia at its worst, and anger had been all he felt, at first – largely aimed at the humans who had dared to interfere, particularly Stiles. But also at Derek, who had once upon a time not been so driven by responsibility. His own nephew had delivered the final blow. 

But he'd had _her_.

Lovely Lydia, his savior, his only ally; she kept him grounded. She alone had been able to turn him away from impulsively clinging to madness, which had been no easy task. She may not have been a suitable option as a mate, considering her inability to succumb to the gift of the bite, but she had been and still is valuable.

She had forced him to recognize this as his second chance. After all, he had not needed to heal one solely side of his body, but every inch, reviving his chilled remains and ridding his flesh of pock-marks, creating himself anew along the way. 

He imagines that he is like a phoenix, lifting himself from the degradation of familiar ashes, and this time, he is going to do things right. He will not allow himself to become blinded and insane with wrath, not like before. He will not focus on just one part of the problem, but fix the whole of it.

To do so, he needs a pack, and that means that Derek, being their current Alpha, has to be on his side. If Derek is not willing to play nice, well, Peter can always kill him and usurp the power, if he's still able to in the first place. He is surely willing to test the theory if given no other alternative.

That being said, Peter can hardly remove Derek from the equation without causing strife. He also prefers not to become responsible for the death of yet another family member.

No, he has to become a part of them first. He has to worm his way into their hearts and their trust, all while he bends Derek under his thumb. Derek will forever be the Alpha of Beacon Hills, but Peter is higher on the food chain, whatever he is.

Honestly, all of this will be for pack welfare. Derek never trained for the job, whereas Peter, and his brother, had been preparing all of their lives for the duties of an Alpha. 

It had just so fallen that his brother had been stronger than he, but Michael has been dead for a long time and it is Peter's turn.

What would be a better way to win them over than to obtain a mate, one respectable enough to sway the others into abandoning their useless resistance?

“Stiles, I am not here to argue with you,” he says, crowding himself into Stiles' space, “I am here to collect. Do you recall what we discussed last time?”

Stiles hunches his shoulders together in manifest distress, even while his chin is tilted and his glare brazen, “Yeah, my answer is still fuck no, so I hope for your own sake that you've changed your mind.”

His wolf whines in unrepentant desire at the display of insolence. How marvelous.

“I thought you might say that.”

He takes a step back, but does not look away, “All of you, go home. I will call for you tomorrow night, and you had better show.” He left what he will do if they were absent up to their imaginations.

No one moves, not until Derek gives them the go-ahead, which he does after a few tense seconds. The delay is purely a demonstration of power, which is fine. For now, such hierarchy is necessary, but it will be altered soon.

Scott alone stays behind, which Peter should have predicted. Stiles may not be as significant as Allison to the beta, but he cares for him. 

“I know you are worried, Scott,” he says, finally breaking eye-contact to give Scott his full attention, “but Stiles is fine. I'm not going to harm him.” Not permanently, and certainly not if he cooperated.

He is clearly conflicted, antsy enough around Derek, not to mention Peter. Scott's wolf must have been able to identify him as something even more dominant than an Alpha. As such, his instincts are telling him to do as he is told, to run on home, but his loyalties are torn.

“He's my best friend...”

Peter discerns his true meaning – this is the only way he can insinuate how important Stiles is and just what he will do if he is hurt without being construed as hostile. It's moving, really.

Peter offers him a sympathetic smile, “Go home. Stiles will be here tomorrow.”

“Hey!” Stiles interrupts, receiving a glare for his effort, and for once, he shuts up. He is intelligent enough to pick his battles.

It is altogether evident that is all the reassurance that Scott is going to get, and after exchanging a look between his friend and his Alpha, he leaves.

Finally, they are alone, and Peter visibly relaxes, rolling his head and shrugging his shoulders, “Now, down to business.”

He shoots Stiles a look that plainly says “stay”. The boy raises his hands in surrender – he isn't going anywhere. Peter is a little disappointed that he does not attempt to provoke him with a witty quip about not being a trained poodle, but he supposes the absence of such suggests that he has all the more fire to look forward to later.

“Derek, I think you know what I am going to say, but I'll say it anyway,” he says as he wanders over to his nephew, bending his knees until they are level, “This would be much easier if you just stop fighting the inevitable. I'm stronger than you and your whole pack combined. I'm not here to kill you, or even to necessarily take your place. You're the Alpha, but I am something more. You can tell, can't you? Even when you fought me, you wanted to submit. Your _wolf_ wants to submit. Don't try to lie to me either. We both know you've always been terrible at it.”

“You killed Laura.”

“That again? Yes, I killed her, and only because I had to. She was not avenging our family, and neither were you. And if you don't recall, you killed me. Isn't the debt paid? Or, if it's not, are you really going to make me remind you who truly owes the biggest debt, Derek?”

His voice rose, and Derek, Alpha or not, reeked of mounting fear, “You single-handedly caused the massacre of our family. You knew who killed them and you did _nothing_. You ran away instead. And so did Laura. I was the only one willing to do what needed to be done, and yet, you hate me for reaping the justice that you could have prevented to begin with. Don't you dare judge me.”

The audible emotion in his voice shocks even himself. He had believed himself past these outbursts, but apparently he isn't. Derek's repetitive and juvenile excuses are grating on him more than he had initially anticipated.

Peter knows what would have occurred had Laura been allowed to continue her venture. 

She would have dug herself down to the disappointing truth. She would have found Kate Argent and confronted her, but in the end, she would have died. She would have played the by the rules and reached for her cellphone to contact the good sheriff, and Kate would have blown her away.

He stops, regathering his thoughts and dialing down his aggression, saving such fury for when he will actually need it.

“Let's not dwell... You're still missing the big picture here, Derek. We could have a family again. A pack. And I'm sure that you need help with those betas. They seem like a handful.”

“I don't need help from you.”

“You don't think you do... but wait until your little pack realizes that you don't have a clue what you're doing. Wait until they realize that it is not they who are weak, but it is you who make them weak. How long do you think they'll bare their neck to you before one of them get it in their heads that they could do the job better than you? Especially your youngest pup, Boyd, is it? Can't you smell the rebellion on him? You need me, Derek, don't be a fool.”

Peter admittedly thinks he has him now, he can see a glimmer of resignation in Derek's weary eyes.

“No one is going to turn on him. We're his family now. He doesn't need someone like you around.”

Peter quickly stands, “Of course you would think that everyone is good at heart. That no one would dream of taking Derek's place... Not everyone is as good as you are, Stiles.”

The human stares at him before losing it, laughing as though he is not insulting a creature that can cut him in half with one thoughtless swipe. “That's hilarious. Me. Good. Wow, do you have your humans crossed. No, I'm not good.”

It is undeniably fascinating to watch Stiles transform, wearing his resolve like armor, his eyes shrewd in the fading evening light, “If anyone, and I mean _anyone_ , truly hurt someone I care about... I would find a way to end them, no matter what it took.”

Peter would not have been the least bit thrown had Stiles' irises gone rabid-yellow, but alas, he remains human. Just as stubborn and reckless as Peter knows him to be, but to see the violence in him, awakened merely by talking about the potential of retribution... Peter has never been more turned on in his life. 

He and his wolf sigh happily. Derek growls, because he must have known, must have been able to _smell_ Peter's intentions. He catches the territorial gleam in Derek's gaze, face contorting to resemble the scrunch of a muzzle. Stiles is his.

Stiles stands there, so out of the loop and yet still so loyal, although a margin less bold now that the two weres are engaged in what seemed to be the werewolf equivalent of a shouting match.

Peter stalks towards him, too tempted to keep himself in check. As he closes the distance between them, Stiles' determination melts away into dismay. He had clearly not thought his actions through. Withal, Stiles holds his ground, and Peter veritably shivers in delight.

What a contradiction he is; such a small boy, practically mundane in appearance until you meet his eyes and then, then you recognize that he is more than he seems. Much more.

Even before Peter had seen him in his human form, he had taken notice of his compelling aura. He had observed both Stiles and Scott that night in the woods, waiting to strike, only for his options to dwindle to one. Later, he had heard the trust in Scott's voice, in every smile he directed towards his best friend. Peter had tasted the teetering fright mingled with awe in the air when Stiles had approached him in the school, thinking him incapacitated and raging in futility...

Indeed, Peter had taken notice, and he had _wanted_ , and that is doubly true now.

They are a whisper apart, and Peter studies his face as Stiles' mouth opens, at a loss.

“Nothing more to say, Stiles? But you were on a roll there, why stop?”

Stiles licks his lips,Peter unabashedly tracking the movement. It is a nervous habit more than a seduction in spite of the effect. Stiles realizes his mistake, because his mouth closes with a snap. 

He steels in indignation, “Oh, maybe because I like a little room to breathe.”

“Never stopped you before... Shall I guess? We did so enjoy our last guessing game.”

Stiles snorts, more anxious than amused, “Sure, you did, you creep. Listen, can we just cut the crap, please? I still don't want to be your fucking mate or whatever. I'm with Derek,” and Peter's hackles rise at that, and something about his expression must have darkened, because Stiles stammers ever so slightly, “Uh, no, wrong choice of words. Not in the way that you're thinking.”

But the idea has been hatched, a niggling parasite under his skin. Getting a glimpse of Derek does nothing to balm his temper. Derek is smirking, an undercurrent of satisfaction where he had expected to see his face carefully kept blank.

Peter has his fingers hooked around Stiles' upper arms not a heartbeat later, delving in to sniff his neck. Derek is all over him, but also remnants of Scott and the other betas, plus the typical aroma of other humans. Not strange overall, but there is something _wrong_ about it.

Stiles endures his proximity with almost obedient silence, right up until Peter begins to travel downward.

Stiles tries to shove at him, “Hey! I thought you were a wolf, not a goddamn dog. Stop sniffing me!”

There is an edge of hysteria to his command, and that just provides more motivation for him to explore all the further. 

As he gets closer to Stiles' groin, he realizes what is bothering him. His own scent has been dampened by more than the passing of time, as he originally suspected. Derek is there, beneath layers of residual soap and sweat, the oldest trace of his nephew's touch suppressing his own, overwhelming his claim.

He roars in unexpected outrage. Derek was trying to take his mate, just as he had taken his life. He is more than angry; crazed is more apropos.

He pushes Stiles back, causing him to stagger but not fall. “You... Do you want him, Stiles? Were you happy to have him on you, after me, covering you with his scent?”

“What the fuck is it with you werewolves and your affinity with smell?”

Peter is back in his face, fists curled in his collar, “That is not an answer!”

Stiles is afraid, but more than that, he is shaking with the same intensity as Peter, “No, you fucker, I didn't want him. Just like I didn't want you. Like that made any difference to either of you. Is that enough of an answer for you?”

Peter detects no lie. He releases his hold, swallowing once as he nods, his attention transferring to Derek. He does the only thing that can possibly convey his utter disappointment. He smiles, gradual and greasy; the mad grin of a victor.

“Stiles, you are mine,” he says, still looking at Derek, “You have no choice in the matter, especially now that Derek has claimed you as well. He must know that he has backed me into a corner.” 

Derek, poor, inexperienced Derek widens his eyes, his mouth dropping when he finally _understands_.

“Peter, please.”

That is all it takes – Stiles runs. He knows that the moment Derek Hale begs, that is the time to flee rather than fight.

Peter has Stiles up against the pillar closest to Derek, savoring his groan of pain before casting out a hand to warn Derek away from meddling. He matches his nephew's desperately furious eyes with his own flame-orange hue. His fingernails shift into claws, wagging one in Derek's direction. As unassuming as the motion is, he knows he has made himself positively transparent.

Derek was to stay out of this, or he would not hesitate to ensure his compliance in a more finite fashion.

Peter disregards him then, turning to Stiles, who is as stoic as always. “There are rules about taking a mate, Stiles. Very specific rules. Derek has broken one, and not only that, he has knowingly challenged me. I either make you mine now, or his claim remains the strongest, the most complete. I simply can not allow that.”

His eyebrows knit together in such exquisite confusion, but it is a hopeful kind of confusion. Certainly, Stiles knows exactly what Peter is talking about, but he does not wish for it. 

That is fine. It is not ideal, but it can be rectified, with time. Not tonight, perhaps... Tonight, he has a lesson to teach.

His initial designs had been to take his time unraveling the boy from the outside in and then to piece him back together, better than before. He should have known that planning around a wild card like Stiles was futile. He had went and bewitched Derek as well, inadvertently sealing his own fate.

“Derek has done me quite the favor, really. I no longer have to wonder whether I should take it slow with you. The decision has been made for me.”

Stiles' breath is labored now, his mouth perfectly round.

“And the best part about it?” Peter continues, accenting his words with a wave of his clawed hands, “I don't have to be so careful now. If I break you, I have the freedom to put you back together, without fear of the pack interfering, because they are mine. Just as you are mine, just as Derek is _mine_.”

He pauses to give his wayward nephew a second's recognition, smirking while he runs his knuckles down Stiles' cheek, the memory of doing the same to Stiles only weeks before sending a ripple of crazed amusement down his spine; oh yes, he is glad for what Derek has initiated.

Stiles tries to laugh it off, offering a half-smile, “Hey, all that is real funny stuff, but why don't you let me go now?”

The pattering of Stiles' increasing heart-rate is testament enough that he is taking Peter seriously, in spite of what he said.

“I don't think so.”

He bunches his hand around Stiles' collar, yanking him forward and in front of him. He starts to walk him toward one of the sturdiest looking tables, its location fortunate enough to give Derek an exceptional view.

Naturally, Peter wants Derek to act as a witness. After all, this is a lesson for Derek as much as it is for Stiles – both individuals need to be forced into submission, and this is the most permanent means of doing so. Peter has to admit, it is also the most fun.

However, it isn't like before. It isn't just the urge to make Stiles notice him as more than an enemy, as a potential companion; to lavish him tenderness and adoration in order to capture him. He has already achieved that, having lacked his permission or not. This time, it is about mating him, about proving beyond any shadow of a doubt that Stiles belongs to him, no matter how he does it.

Smelling another on his chosen has sent his wolf howling in desire, craving restitution in blood and tears, and they will have it. 

Stiles is panicking, his muscles tightening with the purpose of running, and Peter growls in warning. “Don't make this more difficult than necessary. Remind me, how far did you get last time?”

“Now that you bring it up...” Stiles doesn't run, but he does look to Derek for help, or for instruction, Peter can't be sure.

Derek avoids his scrutiny, settling on Peter instead. In his eyes, ideas spark only to sputter and die, until he is savagely beaten, despair and resignation pouring off him in waves. It is then that Derek risks looking Stiles' way.

“Don't fight him, Stiles. I can't beat him, and neither can you. Just...” 

Peter clicks his tongue, “How touching, and so very true. Will you listen to your Alpha, Stiles?”

Stiles is holding his breath, nostrils flared, likely contemplating his chances... And then he makes a dash, and Peter pulls him back against his chest, ushering out an exasperated sigh.

“I was really hoping it wouldn't come to this.”

“Wait, c'mon, we should talk about this. I mean, you don't have to do this right now. What if I promise myself to you or something? We can go out and buy promise rings tomorrow, we can figure something out. Good things come to those who wait, that's what they say, right?”

“That's cute, Stiles, trying to talk me out of this, but it won't work. These traditions are older than you. Derek knew what he was doing; blame him. He was well aware of how this could go. You could ask him yourself, but I already know what he would say.

“See, let me explain. He has been waiting to tell you everything. Waiting until he was strong enough to confront me. Waiting for you to get older so he was free to court you properly – after all, Derek has always been a right gentleman. I'm willing to bet that when he rendered my claim invalid, he even had the gall to apologize. Something about how he would have liked to do things differently, I imagine. I'll go as far as to say my naive nephew truly thought he could protect you... Oh, Derek, be a dear and correct me if I'm wrong about anything here.”

Derek looks ill, his expression glassy and unfocused.

“Derek?” It's a sweet sound, all of that disillusioned faith, all of that betrayal.

Peter utilizes his stupor to direct him to the table. Peter knocks the back of his knees so that he falls forward, pushing him the rest of the way down, and if he lands a little hard, well, that's his own fault.

A string of creative swear words that Peter can't begin to follow shoots out of Stiles' mouth. Peter bends down over him, four fingers folded over the crux of his shoulder, thumb caressing the shell of his ear, “He tried to take you from me, Stiles... and I don't react well to having my things touched.”

“I'm not yours! I'm a goddamn teenager – you can't own a person!”

“I would bring up how your humanity can be easily remedied, but that is secondary to the fact that you are not just a human, you are pack. You will follow our laws – and this is one of them. You would do best to accept that.”

“I'm not going to just accept you raping me!” Stiles is arching up against him as though it might be sufficient, as though it doesn't _do_ things to him. 

Peter has been long past his threshold, and the sensation of Stiles' wriggling body against his own brings him to his breaking point. Peter finds himself nudging his hips down onto his backside, jostling him into the table. 

Stiles grunts against clenched teeth, “Get the fuck off me!” Peter can't help but laugh, “This is not fucking funny! Let me go!”

Stiles smells too much like Derek, especially this shirt of his, and Peter doesn't want it left intact. He slashes clean through the paper-thin fabric, shredding it off his shoulders. He will get him another eventually, a whole new wardrobe actually; one that smells solely of _him_.

Derek will have no further right to him after this, and if either of them break the bond, Peter will have warrant to retaliate in any manner he sees fit.

Stiles is flailing his hands, and Peter grabs both his wrists. He crushes them against the edge of the table, steady and harsh enough to hear the crunch of tendons. Withal, he is obviously not applying full force. Stiles cries out no matter, and it only takes that delicious promise of more pain to make him go still.

“Good, you're learning.”

“Fuck you.” 

Peter smirks, overlooking the petty insult in favor of running a human fingernail down the ridge of Stiles' spine, all the way to his pants. Stiles remains rigid for a second, but the moment Peter makes a move for his zipper, he's thrashing all over again. Peter works around his attempts as one might regard a light breeze. 

Peter first removes Stiles' shoes, which requires a bit of maneuvering with his own feet. Next, he drags Stiles' pants off, piling them on the floor, his boxers joining them. He slips a hand into his own pocket, retrieving a tube he'd bought exclusively for this particular occasion. 

The whole time, Stiles is berating him, and it is music to his ears, although nonetheless ineffectual.

“Don't fucking touch me! Let me go, right now. Seriously, this is no way to treat your mate! Dinner first, or, I don't know, some flowers or -” Peter traces the contours of his ass, “oh god, let me fucking go,” and he dips a lubed digit in. Stiles is so splendid in his agony, “Ow, god! Don't -”

“Shh, shh,” Peter coos, stroking his closely-cut hair, kissing the nape of his neck as his finger digs in deep, adding a second to scissor him open.

Stiles' breath skips, turning into an irregular, enticing jumble. He is rambling now, his body trembling, but nevertheless adjusting the longer Peter works on him. 

When Stiles' babbling transitions into frequent moans that should not have been so intoxicating, Peter judges him ready. Peter slides his own garments past his thighs, still holding Stiles' wrists down, his right hand on his hip.

Stiles shudders around him as he presses in, panting into the table, and Peter is slow, oh so slow about it. He wants to be careful, because Stiles has not done anything to merit rough treatment.

Stiles is worth it, too. He is everything Peter has ever wanted, despite being less than eager about this whole situation, but he can forgive that. Stiles is still young, there is still time... Plenty of time.

Peter is finally fully inside, and Stiles sounds magnificent, muffled by anguish and stumbling over his own breath. He kisses his shoulder, rolling in him before pulling himself out and going all the slower. Stiles' weak rebellion persists, but he is all too quiet. Maybe he is being a bit cruel...

He trails his fingers from Stiles' hips to his groin, circling him and giving a tiny, experimental tug. Stiles changes his tune, going slack. 

“No, no, please, don't, I don't... Just, do me this one favor. I know I don't have a choice – you've made that real goddamn clear, but give me this. Please,” he says in a rush, and, well, he seems so sincere that Peter can't deny him.

He lets him go, returning to his position at his hip. His lips retreat to Stiles' back, nibbling down his spine. He angles himself up, focusing on strength more than speed. Whether he helps Stiles along or not, he is hitting him _just so_ , because Stiles is right. He has no choice. 

Stiles bucks up against him, in relish, repugnance, or a combination of both, he doesn't know. Either way, Peter wants to turn him over, to take in every detail, because things are going so well. Stiles is melting beneath him, writhing and keening, “Oh god, stop, please stop.” 

He can hear the fringe of arousal blossoming in his pleas; he is desperate to make it end, to be able to ignore it. He's glorious, before it all splinters to red.

“Derek,” Stiles begs, and it is nothing more than a choked sob, relatively inaudible but for his enhanced senses, but it is testament of Stiles' affection and absolute trust in the Alpha. He risked calling for him, undeterred by the knowledge that Derek is incapable of aiding him, and knowing that it would incur his mate's wrath.

Stiles had said it on purpose – there was no other reason for it.

The wolf roars, and Peter can't control himself. Even here, even now, Derek is stealing Stiles away from him. Before he even realizes what he's doing, he has slammed Stiles' forehead into the veneered plastic. Stiles gives a blood-wet shout.

“Stiles!” 

Derek actually cares, and oh, isn't that thrilling.

Peter snarls, snapping his momentarily fanged jaw, echoing the will of his animal. If Derek comes near him, pack or not, he will tear him to shreds so infinitesimally small that not even his little family could find all of him.

Stiles is whimpering beneath him, motionless, summoning thoughts of their first encounter. Has he gone too far?

Peter is meticulously gentle as he turns his mate over, situating himself between Stiles' legs while he lay numb. He kisses a spot next to Stiles' lip where a rather pronounced amount of scarlet has bubbled up. 

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you so badly, but you are mine... you must not say his name like that again. Not ever, do you understand me, Stiles?” 

Stiles is just staring at him, a hint of tears in his eyes and his mouth open in remnant pain. He waits, licks his lips as per that darling habit of his, and looks almost penitent before his face is enveloped by unadulterated contempt, “Go fuck yourself.”

He had expected as much. As proud as he is that Stiles has spirit, his wolf bays for release, for submission to his own urges, to make Stiles cry out for _him_ , not Derek.

Derek is not worthy of such devotion. After all, look at him – fuming from the safety of his pillar, the sallow quality to his skin deepening every second he holds himself back. 

He, evidently, can be trained, but Stiles on the other hand exhibits much more tenacity – strange wasn't it, that he is a mere human, while still possessing all the characteristics of a creature far more advanced.

No matter his unique allure, he can be tamed; with effort – but it is no time to tame him. Now is the time to destroy him, to prepare him to be remade, and to teach him and Derek both that whatever there is between the two had to end. There is no going back, and Peter will not permit any further mockery to be made of his claim.

He cocks his head to the side, his lips curving into a caricature of sympathy, “Unfortunately for you,” he thrusts in again, for emphasis as well as for relief, “that is no longer necessary now that I have you.”

On his back, Stiles is visible, allowing Peter to absorb every subtle consequence of his ministrations. He is well attuned to his mate's tendency to expose his emotions in every twist of his features, but this is something else entirely.

As he picks up where he left off, Stiles throws his hands above him to grasp the edges of the shaking table, chin slanting up to unintentionally expose his neck into the air as he gasps with every shift of Peter's hips. He takes intuitive advantage of his vulnerability, his fangs grazing twitching veins, laughing into warm skin that will eventually bleed around his bite, eventually heal into the unmarred flesh of his wolf-mate, the equal he has searched so long for.

Each flash of sensation is highlighted by a truly astounding range of delectable noises and curses. Peter does all he can to encourage him, intermittently modifying his technique to elicit some new response.

Fingertips probe sensitive skin, memorizing every indent and blemish. When he reaches the gradually healing scratches he had bestowed upon Stiles' chest, he replicates the gesture without hesitation, rending through scar tissue and rejoicing in the resulting scream.

Taking him like this, it is inexplicable like the taste of moonlight on Peter's tongue, the lightning-rush of the hunt in his veins. Stiles is his to cherish, his to mold and corrupt with pleasure and agony.

The crisp tang of misery is electric in the air, and suddenly there is silence, save for the occasional slap of flesh and stifled groan, and this is it, isn't it?

Yes, Stiles is still holding onto the table, but his eyes are unseeing as they stare into the ceiling, and he is no longer whining or begging. 

Derek, as well as Peter, knows what this means – not that Stiles has given up, oh no, never that, but that he is breaking. He can hear his nephew's bones crack as the shift embraces him, and Peter lets it happen. Derek will not attack, and if he does, well, won't that be a surprise?

Peter revels in his success, sweeping up a streak of crimson from Stiles' wounds, the distinct flavor of **mate** driving him all the more wild. Pressure builds in him, he is close, but not quite _there_. Something is missing. 

He bites Stiles' lips, smearing them with all the more color. Peter quickly tires of his sullen behavior, plunging claws into Stiles' hip to rouse him, drawing out a rewarding yelp. The subsequent frisson of joy that settles in his marrow ruffles the wolf in all the right ways.

“That's more like it, Stiles... I'm all too happy that you've accepted this, but don't be so quiet! It's not very fun that way, and you won't like it if I have to make this more entertaining, I promise you that.”

He has Stiles' full attention again, those aching, tear-slicked eyes peering at him with such stunning fervor; certainly, he is not conquered yet.

With his nails still wedged between bone and tendon, he pulls Stiles into him with cruel enthusiasm. The ring of muscle around him spasms in return, tight and perfect.

In spite of Peter's demand as well as all of his effort to make him vocal, Stiles is as restrained as possible. He should not indulge such impudence, but he lets it slide. Another time, another place.

He can feel the consummation of their bond precisely when it happens; it's like being burned again, a poker-hot fetter clamping down on him, on them. Their tie cements with a few simple thrusts, a few wrecked moans – from Stiles, of course. Peter clings to his bruised and exhausted body even when it's over, rocking into him until he feels sore from gratification, until the boy is no longer so placid.

“Okay, okay, now get off me! Get off, get _off_!” his hands fruitlessly shove at him, and it's almost adorable how petulant he is.

Peter is not ready to let him go, fingers crooking ever so slightly where they still lay embedded in his hip, eliciting a ragged grunt. He exhales out only when Stiles freezes, content to have his mate underneath him, soaked in his scent, his come leaking out onto the floor even while he lingers inside him. 

Stiles is _claimed_. Peter can appreciate a good thing, verily purring into Stiles' trembling throat.

Eventually, Stiles is scrabbling at him again, “Please, you need to just... get out of me. It fucking hurts, you've proven your point. It's over.”

He reluctantly leaves the sanctuary of his neck, gazing down, “It's not over. It's just begun. You're my mate now, and as such, you're going to have a lot of obligations, Stiles. One of them being _this_ , so you'd better just get used to it.”

He smiles, largely for his own benefit, yanking his fingers out the furrow he has created, a spiral of pain bursting in his mate's tawny eyes. 

“You'll learn to like it,” he says while he scrapes a hand over Stiles' straining and tortured groin, giving him no comfort. Stiles had asked for that much, and Peter is well aware that compromises have to be made in any relationship. “After all, next time, I don't need to prove a point, as you so succinctly put it. I can take my time with you, make you enjoy it just as much as I do.”

Slathered in congealing vermilion, he traces a line down his cheek, looping around his chin to angle him up, taking Stiles' mouth into his own. He chooses not to address the following indifference; he is much too happy to ruin this moment.

He finally releases Stiles, all of him, who wraps his arms around himself, just sitting there, eyes glazed over and almost empty.

“Why don't you go get your _mate_ a blanket, or a first-aid kit? He's a human, not a wolf. Wouldn't want him to bleed to death after your honeymoon, would you?”

Normally, Derek's insolence would have earned him a good slap, or at the very least a growl, but not this time. No, instead, he just chuckles, “I just love how you hide your jealousy, Derek. Passive aggressive suits you.”

Peter raises a brow, “I'll tell you what, since you've been such a good sport about all of this, I'll throw you bone. You fix him up, I've got some errands to run.” 

Stiles all but ceases breathing when Peter grabs his arm, tugging him up enough to obligate eye-contact, “I don't think that I really have to remind you what I would do if you were to cross any boundaries, my dear, so I won't. I'll be back before the sun goes down.”

He kisses Stiles one more time, turning to walk out, not bothering with the rest of his clothes – it is evident that where he is going, all he will require is his fur.

“Be good,” words obviously not directed at Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to note that I do not believe that the "wolf" is a separate entity. I just mean to imply that the wolf is a part of their soul; it is an instinct in itself.


	3. Of Dirt You're Made And Of Dirt You Will Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Rox In Box" by the Decemberists

Peter is gone and Stiles lies on the table, bruise-red and rife with the repelling scent of Peter, of bitter defeat and fatigue; but he remains _Stiles_ underneath it all, even if it is a bit harder to tell now.

“Stiles?” Derek gets nothing, not so much as a blink his way – not unexpected. He disappears inside of the subway car he has called his home for the last three months, taking the time to force the change back so that he looks entirely human. It is a challenge, to say the least. Since becoming an Alpha, the call of the moon is more severe, and his triggers more varied. What Stiles had just gone through, what he is still going through; to say that it is a trigger isn't really cutting it.

Once finished, he brings a well-worn blanket out with him. He hands it to Stiles, who finally deigns to finally look at him.

Stiles can barely keep his own hand from wavering as he takes the proffered fabric, “Thanks.”

His voice is hollow, scratchy with unresolved questions and tinged by violence. Derek hurts, his wolf mauling him from the inside out, yearning to hold Stiles, to taste the copper-steam of Peter's blood in his mouth. 

Stiles tries to raise his arms in order to cover himself, but he winces, the cloth falling from his quivering fingertips. Derek is unable to stifle the whine that escapes the confines of his throat. He picks up the blanket, arranging it around Stiles' shoulders in a way that enables him to be as shielded as possible. 

He and Isaac had both used the blanket, so it smells like them, like how Pack should smell, and Derek is a little pleased that it manages to drown out some of the stench. Just not anywhere close to all of it. The temptation to rub himself all over Stiles is nearly overwhelming, but he recalls Peter's warning.

Best not to make things more difficult than they already are.

He sits down next to Stiles, only to stand back up the second the boy flinches, but not in fear. Oh no, Stiles is outwardly volatile, and cracking quickly.

He is aware that he should not say it, but he blurts it out anyways, “I am so sorry.”

“Well, that's a stupid thing for you to say, Derek. Of course you're sorry. Sorry that you didn't get to fuck me first, right?”

Derek endeavors not to cringe, but fails as his heart sinks. Stiles is saying it out of spite, but considering that it rings true, he can't exactly get indignant about it. Nevertheless, Stiles does have it wrong at the core. He does not want him the way Peter does. He wants Stiles to desire him deep in his soul, to kiss him back and to see in Derek a companion, not a monster.

He has never wanted to force Stiles, but it had all gone awry. He'd had no other choice but to claim him, thinking that all he had needed was more _time_ to stop Peter, to concoct a plan and execute it. Clearly, he could not have been more wrong.

“No! Not like that, Stiles, please, let me explain.”

“I think Peter explained it well enough. Something about me makes you fucking Alphas or whatever the hell that bastard is go crazy. I don't know what makes me so goddamn special, but why!? Tell me that, Derek. Why is this happening to me? Scott is the werewolf, he's supposed to be the hero of this story. Why am I getting screwed?” Stiles laughs, and god it _aches_ , “literally.”

Derek doesn't know how to answer him, not in any adequate manner, because it isn't something one can describe. It has to be felt before it can be properly understood.

Stiles takes his frown as a refusal, because the next thing Derek knows, an impotent human fist slams into his cheek. Stiles is nursing his hand, swearing as he does, blanket hanging half-off his shoulders. 

His frown deepens, his face not so much as sore. Without thinking, he adjusts the blanket and then grabs Stiles hands so he can't do any more damage, mostly to himself, “I am going to answer. You have to give me a chance. This is.. complicated. First of all, let me get that first-aid kit. Especially now that you've injured yourself further.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, “I did not. I don't think I can hurt myself any more than I already am, but I appreciate your concern. A little too late though.”

“No,” he snaps, “Don't. Don't you dare. You think I wouldn't have helped you if I could have? You think it was _easy_ for me to watch him hurt you? To watch him take you as a mate when you are...” 

He stops, shaking his head, eyes flashing red despite his attempts to reign in his wolf.

“Trust me. It was far from easy.”

He releases Stiles, retreating back to the subway car to retrieve his first-aid kit, which is surprisingly used for a pack of super-healing werewolves, but then, they are young. They are all so young.

When he returns, Stiles is unfocused again, staring at one spot on the slab of rock that serves as walls; what is going on in his mind, Derek can only guess, but none of it is probably good. He wants to move him to somewhere softer, like the couch, but when he makes a move to do so, Stiles just curls into himself. 

Okay then. Derek opens the container, reaching for the alcohol first.

Before he has the chance to apply it, Stiles catches his wrist, though he is still concentrated on the wall, “This is real, isn't it? Like... This isn't some fucked up dream. I'm the mate of Peter Hale, who isn't dead. He isn't really a werewolf anymore, is he?”

“No. Well, yes, he is and he isn't. I'm not certain what he is, and neither is Deaton. I can't ask the Argents about it either.” That isn't an option, Gerard is still running the show and they wanted his blood, not his alliance, “But in the strictest sense, no. He's something else, something more powerful, something more closely tied with death than with life, as we wolves are.”

Stiles nods, seemingly accepting the answer. Then he turns his head, “Am I still a human? I... I can feel him, Derek, right now. In my fucking veins, in my _head_ ,” the sanity in his voice is dripping away like leaves in autumn, crackling into decay, “I know what he's doing. He's out there, howling at the goddamn moon, hopped up on _me_ , like I'm some fucking drug to him. I.. am I....”

Stiles is pitching forward and back, hyperventilating, the table wobbling beneath him.

His wolf cries out, and Derek has Stiles' hand in his once more, this time just the one. Stiles doesn't stop the motions altogether, but he does relax a little, breath somewhat stabilizing.

Derek absently brushes over the rash developing on his knuckles, “You're still human. You're still exactly who you were before. It's just that you have always been made for this.”

Stiles starts, beginning to jerk out of his grasp. Derek panics, circling his wrist to hinder him from fully pulling away, “No, wait, let me finish. You're made to be a mate, Stiles. What I mean is that to any werewolf of rank, or to any born-wolf, you do not smell like prey. You smell like equal, like... like home. It sounds ridiculous, I know, not to mention like it's out of some teenager's wet-dream, but it's true.”

Stiles does stop moving then, and Derek fully anticipates some sort of flippant response, or just to be told he was full of shit.

“Oh.”

“Is that all? Oh?”

“No, that's not all, actually. It would have been nice if you had told me, but hey, can't do shit about it now. I'm stuck. And I'm trying really hard not to blame you. If you would have just _told_ me that I am apparently catnip for werewolves, I could have prepared myself. I could have learned, I could have, could have...”

“Could have what? Resigned yourself? I never thought something like this would happen, Stiles! It took me by surprise just like you!”

“Bullshit!” 

There it is, finally that bitter rage.

“You knew. You had a plan. You were _waiting_ , just like Peter said, weren't you? For me to get older, for the right moment to tell me that, what, you want to fuck me because I smell like _home_?”

“No, not like that-”

“You've already said that! Doesn't make it any better, Derek, you... You fucking raped me, just like Peter did. You're no better than him!”

It stings, worse than a wolfsbane bullet, and just as potentially lethal. Stiles is Pack; he is more than that. He could be more than that, and Derek is losing him to a misunderstanding, and to a beast who should have been six feet under with maggots and worms eating out his rotting eye-sockets. 

This isn't fair. Granted, nothing about his life has been fair, but this is the one thing that should have gone his way. It is too much, really, to feel Stiles' hatred, to know that he is wholly justified. 

“Stiles...”

Stiles is staring at him, and then he is suddenly crying, an uncontrollable mess of wracking sobs and words, so many words, every one of them significant and yet meaningless.

“He said you were waiting, he said that you wanted to fucking _court_ me, how fucked up is that?! But, Derek, god, you should have, you should have. I would have known and I could have made my own decision. I, you... this is too much. I can't handle this, I can't, what about my dad? What would he say?! I'm a werewolf's whore now, and I-”

That is quite enough. Derek braces Stiles' face between his hands, gentle but firm, “Stiles, stop. You're no one's whore. You haven't been ruined by him. You've been hurt, but you're not broken, and don't let yourself pretend to be. We're going to fix this. I'm going to fix this, okay?”

Stiles is still sniffling, still weeping, but he is listening, and that is progress. 

“How can you be so sure, Derek? He's so strong.”

“Yes, he's strong. But he has a weakness now, doesn't he?”

Stiles doesn't get it, not for a while. Not until after Derek has lifted him up, helping him to walk over to the couch, stiff-legged and slow, because Derek knows carrying him would make him feel helpless; he already feels like enough of an invalid. Not until after Derek is behind him on the couch, patting alcohol he barely reacts to onto the cuts, muttering about him needing stitches.

“You're talking about me, aren't you? I'm his weakness.”

Derek's gentle care persists, but he nods, and doesn't miss the smirk that reopens the torn membranes of Stiles' lips. 

“I'm his weakness,” Stiles says again.

Now he's getting it.


End file.
